Spymaster

by Margaret Weis

  With a flap of his wings, the dragon caught the currents of the Breath and flew off.

  “Dalgren!” Kate shouted, running after him. “Dalgren!”

  Tripping over a rut, she stumbled and fell. Dalgren did not look back. She watched him fly into the mists until her vision blurred and she lost sight of him.

  She angrily blinked away the tears. She had not cried when the crew dumped Morgan’s body into the Breath and she would not cry now. This was a misunderstanding. Once she had a chance to explain matters to Dalgren, he would realize he had misjudged her and they would be friends again.

  Picking herself up, she walked the rest of her way to the inlet, where Victorie rode at anchor. Smugglers had made use of this inlet for years, perhaps as far back as the time of the Pirate King. Some clever crafter had magically whittled away several natural rock formations so that ships could attach lines to them.

  The crew was not idle. Olaf could always find work for the men to keep them busy. Everyone stopped what they were doing when Kate came in sight. No one waved or called out a friendly greeting. Marco said something to Olaf, who ordered him to lower the gangplank.

  Kate cast a swift glance around. She had nursed a small hope that maybe Dalgren would have a change of heart and that he would be waiting for her.

  The dragon was nowhere in sight.

  Olaf came hobbling down the gangplank to meet her.

  “Did Dalgren find you?” Olaf asked.

  “He found me,” said Kate. “Is Victorie ready to sail?”

  Olaf regarded her with concern.

  “I tried to convince him to stay, but he wouldn’t listen. He seemed really upset, Kate. I think it had something to do with that dragon that was murdered. Was she a friend of his?”

  “Did he say where he was going?” Kate asked.

  “No.” Olaf eyed her. “What is going on, Kate? I know you’re in some kind of trouble.”

  Kate stood on the shore, looking at her ship drifting at anchor. The mists of the Breath twined around the masts and drifted among the rigging. She had lost everything else, including Barwich Manor, for Sir Henry would tear up the deed, just as he would revoke her letters of marque.

  Fight for your dreams.

  All she had left were her ship and her dreams and her friends.

  “Chart a course for the Aligoes,” she said.

  “The Aligoes! Why would you go back there?” Olaf demanded.

  “Because there are only two places in the world Dalgren would go—the Aligoes or Travia. We’ll look in the Aligoes first. Besides, I have business there.”

  “What business?” Olaf asked dubiously. “A job for that fiend, Coreg?”

  Kate gave a faint smile. “I have to prove I am not a murderer.”

  She put her arm around Olaf.

  “Once we’re safely away, I’ll explain everything. The truth, this time, dear friend,” Kate said. “No more lies.”

  FORTY-THREE

  The days following the death of the dragon were the worst days in Henry’s long career in politics. He likened the experience to being on board a ship under attack, with fires blazing, masts falling, and lift tanks failing. To add to his troubles, Her Majesty was among those firing broadsides at him, lobbing in round after round. As he had foreseen, she blamed him, claimed this disaster was entirely his fault.

  Henry had to report to the members of the Privy Council and ranking members of the House of Nobles, which included his brother. Sir Richard looked grim and tut-tutted a good deal. After that, Henry had to meet with the Travian dragons and a delegation of Rosian dragons to assure them that whoever had committed this heinous crime would be captured and punished. Further, he had to try to convince the Travian dragons not to leave Freya and take their gold with them. Finally he had to arrange for the dragons to view the body and remove it from the underground chamber for the funeral.

  The newspapers wrote about nothing else. The Freyan populace was united in the demand that the dragons must go. People were expressing their views by surrounding the palace, hurling stones and bottles at passing carriages, and breaking shop windows.

  Henry had to continually evade the questions: “How could this murder have been committed? How could a human assassinate a dragon?”

  The one saving grace was that no one had as yet mentioned King Godfrey’s dragon-killing magic. Henry lived in fear that someone, particularly members of the House of Nobles, would remember and dredge it up. No one did, however; this was a small blessing for which he was grateful.

  In the midst of the upheaval, Henry received a note from Simon that, typical of his friend, was short and succinct: Must speak with you. Immediately.

  “I hope to God he has news on the killer,” said Henry to Mr. Sloan, who had brought him the note.

  “I have often mentioned it to Him, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Perhaps this is His answer.”

  Henry and Mr. Sloan took a wyvern-drawn carriage to the house, which they found floating somewhere over the east end. Henry arrived with a feeling of relief. At the entrance, they left the noise of the city far below. The silence was a soothing balm to his bullet-ridden soul. He and Mr. Sloan rang the bell. When no one responded, they let themselves in.

  They found Simon sitting behind his desk, almost hidden among the mounds of papers, newspapers, pamphlets, letters, and books. He looked up when he heard them, and gave a vague smile.

  “Sorry Albright wasn’t here to meet you. I sent him on an errand. I thought you might be hungry. He boiled a ham before he left.”

  Henry and Mr. Sloan both did justice to the ham and potatoes, for they had been too busy to eat regular meals. A glass of wine helped to restore Henry. Simon continued his reading while they ate. Mr. Sloan cleared away the dishes and was about to discreetly withdraw when Simon stopped him.

  “If you would remain, Mr. Sloan, you might be of help.”

  Mr. Sloan sat down.

  “You said the matter was urgent,” said Henry. “I assume this has something to do with the murder.”

  “It does,” said Simon. “I received this letter from Miss Amelia containing a detailed account of how Kate was approached by a man named Trubgek, who is employed by the dragon, Coreg—”

  Henry interrupted, his voice grim. “Kate was supposed to speak to us in person, explain her role in this. Instead she has fled the country. I think we have found our killer.”

  Simon shook his head. “I know you are in urgent need of a murderer, Henry, but let me again assure you that Kate could not possibly have committed the murder. She is a crafter, but a seagoing crafter at best. Besides, she has a dragon partner, to whom she is deeply attached. She would not kill another dragon. May I continue?”

  Henry scowled, but waved his hand in acquiescence.

  “Kate agreed to pick up the magical construct. Her instructions were to go to an abandoned house on Waltham Lane,” said Simon. “She did so, and found the construct in a leather satchel, along with a sword. Miss Amelia provides a description of the construct: ‘Written on a large roll of linen, the construct covered every square inch of the linen from top to bottom, corner to corner.’”

  “Yes, yes,” said Henry. “Get to the point.”

  “Kate was about to leave when she was attacked, drugged, and carried off. She woke up in her home in Barwich Manor, covered in blood—”

  “Ah-ha!” said Henry.

  “She was a cat’s-paw,” said Simon, looking up. “We were meant to think she committed the murder and do just what you were about to do. Arrest her and close the case.”

  “Then if she didn’t do it, who did?” Henry demanded. “And how? What was this magical construct? Do you know?”

  Simon paused, then said, “You won’t like what I have to tell you, Henry. This won’t be easy for me to say or for you to hear.”

  Mr. Sloan stirred in his chair. “Perhaps I should withdraw—”

  “Please do not leave, Mr. Sloan,” said Simon. “Your help could be invaluable. The question is
: Why did Lady Odila do nothing to defend herself from her murderer?”

  “I assume you have the answer.”

  “I do,” said Simon gravely. “Lady Odila could do nothing because she had been paralyzed.”

  Henry was incredulous. “How do you paralyze a dragon?”

  “By use of a powerful magical weapon. I studied the remnants of the construct Mr. Sloan so astutely discovered. They are part of a complex spell, perhaps the most complex ever to have been created. The magic’s sole intent was to kill dragons in their lairs—places where they believe themselves most secure. That was King Godfrey’s idea and the construct was, as Miss Nettleship observed, King Godfrey’s spell.”

  “But that spell didn’t work,” Henry protested. “The project ended in failure.”

  “So people were led to believe,” said Simon. “The truth is the spell worked quite well. You saw the terrible proof.”

  “I don’t believe it! How can you possibly know this?” Henry asked. “How do you know that this spell is the same spell?”

  “I recognized the construct, Henry,” said Simon. “I know it is the same because I helped create it.”

  Henry sat, stunned. The biggest shell yet had landed right on top of him, blown up in his face.

  Simon sighed. “I warned you this would not be easy.”

  “You never said a word!” Henry stated, incredulous. “I remember how you and Alan and Randolph discussed it at the time, after I returned from Estara. We laughed over Godfrey’s latest fool notion. You laughed with us and all the time you knew.… You lied to us!”

  “I had no choice, Henry,” said Simon. “Godfrey commanded those of us who were involved in the project to keep silent or he would bring us up on charges of high treason.”

  “You could have trusted us!” Henry cried angrily, bounding to his feet. “We are your friends! We would not have breathed a word!”

  He started to pace, but had no room amid the file cabinets and the clutter, so was forced to stand, glaring at Simon.

  “I couldn’t risk telling you or our other friends, Henry,” said Simon. “You know what Godfrey was like: cunning, sly, vindictive. Your career was advancing. Randolph had been made first lieutenant and Alan was just starting to recover from that scandal involving his brother. If Godfrey had suspected that any of you knew the truth, he would have ruined all of you.”

  Henry said nothing. He was trying hard to master his anger.

  “There is another reason I didn’t tell you about my involvement, Henry,” said Simon. He drew in a breath, let it out. “I was ashamed.”

  He shifted his chair so that he could look out the large window at the magnificent view of Haever spread out below. After a moment, Henry went to join him, standing with his arms behind his back, hands clenched.

  “You had better tell me the whole story,” said Henry harshly.

  “I was starting out in my career at the time,” said Simon. “I had heard the rumors about some plot of Godfrey’s to assassinate dragons, but I paid little heed to them. He was always coming up with some fool scheme or other. The king hired two eminent crafters to work on creating the construct. They were successful—or so they thought—until they actually began to train people to wield the magic. At that point, they discovered the construct didn’t work. Godfrey brought it to me and asked me to fix it.”

  Simon shrugged. “I was young. I was flattered. I viewed the problem as an academic exercise. I took the construct apart, discovered the flaw, repaired it, and the construct worked.

  “Only then did I begin to question what I had done. I pictured to myself the cruel manner in which the victim would die and I was horrified, both by the construct and the fact that I had worked on it with such callous indifference. I was about to send word to Godfrey that the construct had fatal flaws and suddenly he was here, Henry. The king. He was in this very office, standing where you are now.

  “Godfrey picked up the linen scroll and asked me if I had been successful. I was rattled. I was going to lie, but he must have seen the truth in my face, for he thanked me for my work, told me to keep quiet, and left, taking the construct with him.

  “I was terrified that he might use it and, I swear, I was going to ask you and the others to help me. I had some vague notion that we could steal it. The next day I received a formal letter from the palace stating that the project had ended in failure and that the construct had been destroyed.”

  Henry frowned. “But if it did work, as you claim, why didn’t Godfrey use it against the Dragon Brigade?”

  “I have no way of knowing, of course, and I could hardly ask. Perhaps the king set the plan in motion and it failed. Or perhaps the assassin backed out. The spell is incredibly complex and one has to be within the proximity of a dragon to cast it. If the killer made one small mistake, he would end up the victim. Or it might have suceeded and the Rosian dragons hushed it up. As I said, they deal with their own internal problems themselves. There is even the possibility that the king came to his senses and realized the enormity of what he contemplated. Godfrey wasn’t a bad man, Henry, just rash and impulsive.”

  “So this deadly construct has been floating about out there for years and this is the first I am hearing about it,” said Henry.

  “I am afraid this gets worse,” said Simon. “Could you hand me the sword, Mr. Sloan? It is on that filing cabinet behind you.”

  Mr. Sloan retrieved the weapon and carried it to Simon. The sword had been cleaned, but Henry was still loath even to look at it.

  “Two weeks ago this sword was stolen from a museum,” said Simon. “The killer could have used any weapon to kill the dragon. He could have, for example, placed the muzzle of a blunderbuss on her head and shot her between the eyes. Far simpler, much less trouble. Why go to the trouble to steal a sword—specifically a sword that had belonged to the ancient Imhruns. And then, why leave it behind?”

  “He forgot it,” said Henry.

  “A killer who covers his shoes so that he will not leave bloody footprints forgets the murder weapon? For shame, Henry. You are not thinking.”

  “Forgive me,” said Henry. “I have just suffered a severe shock. My best friend lied to me.”

  “Henry, I am sorry—”

  Henry waved off the apology. “Why this sword?”

  “The sword and the words on the wall, ‘Death to the Wyrm,’ both hearken back to the ancient Imhruns. ‘Wyrm’ is a term they used to mean dragon. The words are a message from the killer.”

  Henry was puzzled. “But how would the killer disseminate such a message? I have not told anyone—not even Her Majesty—what we saw in that dreadful chamber.”

  Simon shifted his chair, reached for a newspaper on his desk and handed it to Henry. “Today’s early-morning edition. I take it you haven’t read it.”

  “When have I had time to look at a bloody paper?” Henry scowled at it. “What am I looking for?”

  “The article titled ‘Shocking Discovery.’”

  Henry found the article and hurriedly scanned it. “This contains details I have been careful not to make public! Such as the sword and the words written on the wall.”

  He slammed the paper onto the desk. “Miss Amelia! That woman promised me! I knew I should have locked her up—”

  “Miss Nettleship did not write this article, Henry,” said Simon. “The style is completely different.”

  “Then who did?” Henry demanded. “No one has entered that castle. Colonel Dalton assured me this very morning. So who could possibly know such details except ourselves and—”

  Henry paused, aghast.

  “The killer,” Simon finished. “He did not write this to titillate the public. He is sending a message. Note the author’s nom de plume.”

  Henry glanced down at the paper. “‘Imhrun Awaken.’ What the devil does that mean?”

  Simon placed his hand on the weapon. “The code name for Godfrey’s project was: ‘Imhrun’s Sword.’”

  Henry was chilled. “What is the
message he is sending and to whom?”

  “He is sending it both to his followers and to us. To his followers, he saying ‘waken,’ be ready to take action. To us, this is a taunt. He can strike with impunity and we cannot touch him.”

  “I should like to prove him wrong,” Henry said.

  “I think we can. But it will not be easy. This murderer is like that sea creature known as a man-o’-war,” Simon said. “Very little of the creature is visible on the top of the ocean, but it has countless tentacles that reach far below the surface.”

  Henry sat in thoughtful silence for several moments, turning over in his mind everything Simon had told him.

  “I need a drink. Where is the aqua vitae?”

  “Second file cabinet, third row, two drawers down. You will find it under ‘V,’” said Simon.

  Mr. Sloan rose to fetch it, but Henry forestalled him. He needed to do something, even if it was only retrieving a bottle. He located the potent liquor and, not immediately finding a glass, drank straight from the bottle.

  He grimaced, coughed. Mr. Sloan procured a glass and silently handed it to him. Henry poured the liquor and took another gulp. Carrying the bottle, he returned to his chair.

  “So where does this lead us?”

  “To the murderer,” said Simon. “And I believe I know his name.”

  Henry lowered his glass and sat forward in his chair. “Do you, by God!”

  “Yes, but there is a problem,” said Simon.

  “Of course!” Henry muttered, flinging himself back in the chair.

  “First I need to explain how the magic works,” said Simon.

  “Must you?” Henry asked.

  “You need to understand the nature of this crime,” said Simon. “Besides, Mr. Sloan is interested. Aren’t you, Mr. Sloan?”

  “I confess that I am, sir.” Mr. Sloan cast an apologetic glance at Henry. “I could see for myself, my lord, that the construct was unique.”

  “The crafters inscribed the construct on a large piece of linen that was itself free of constructs. No magic was used in the process of making it. The caster has to inscribe the spell on the linen in order to cast it. The construct is too complex even for a savant to cast from memory.